Old Habits Are The Only Survivors
by misguided.perfection
Summary: After the war everyone changed, some more drastically than others. What does it take for wounds to heal, or for people to offer and accept help?  * kind of AU, does NOT show Ron in a good light*


"You're drunk."

"And you're Einstein."

"Why don't you go in? The neighbors must be starting to worry." She's perched on the steps outside, a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand, the other clutching at the railing.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A hand shoots out to grab his ankle as he moves to open the door.

"Granger?"

"Yes?"

"What did you destroy this time?"

"Ron. But I didn't do a very good job of it. He was still breathing when I walked out."

"Shit. Granger, you've gotta stop doing this, what if he's seriously hu-"

"Oh shut up. You know as well as I do he can handle himself. And it wasn't my best work." He shudders to know she means this, that she could do worse and not think twice of it anymore. Especially when he notes the faint blood stains on her hands. "He'll live. He probably won't even scar."

"What were you two fighting about now?"

"He was with her again."

There is silence.

"Get up."

"What?"

"Get up. You're coming with me."

She didn't move. Instead, she started to protest again, gesturing wildly with the bottle, but her words were ignored.

"Fine. Don't cooperate. You are still coming." He bent swiftly, and wrapped his arms around her as gently as he could while still insuring she couldn't get away. And then, with a soft pop, they were both gone.

"Put me down this instant, you infuriating troll. If you don't I swear I'll- Oh." Draco took a moment to wonder how much alcohol she had consumed for her insults to weaken so, and for it to take her so long to realize he had set her down.

"Where are we?"

"My flat. Just outside muggle London."

"You have a flat?" She paused. Then the inevitable. "You live near muggles?"

"Been telling you that for years, Granger." Draco smiled humorlessly. He attempted to take the bottle from her, but she was still clinging desperately to it, and tugged it back to her so ferociously that it nearly spilled. "But then you always were stubborn. You just… wait here. I've got something that will help you."

Draco ducked into the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet till he found the bottle he was looking for, a potion good for sobering someone up. When he returned to the living room, it was to find her passed out in the chair, bottle dangling loosely from her fingertips, hair cascading down the side almost to the ground.

He groaned and grabbed the bottle from her, placing it on the coffee table. As he went about making her comfortable and then tidying up his place, he couldn't help wondering what he had gotten himself into, and why on earth he was being so damned nice to the witch.

When she awoke, it was in a giant bed of white, with clean hands and a massive hangover. She quickly found, however, that the confusion she felt at the sight of the strange bed was nothing to the pain of trying to move her head to look around, and the feel of the pillows and fluffy white blankets were such that she quickly sank into them willingly, and drifted off to sleep again, hoping that when she awoke her head would not hurt quite as much as it did then.

The second time she woke up, it was to less of a hangover and more of a concern for herself and her situation. She was still in the bed, and it was still as comfortable as it had seemed earlier, but now the drive to get out of it was pressing on her, and besides.

She smelled someone cooking.

She crept out of the bedroom and into a long hall, decorated in green and white as the bedroom had been, and through a lavish looking living room, until she found the source of the smell. Her heart soared as she entered the kitchen. There was a plate piled high with sausage and fried eggs and pancakes resting on a large bar crafted of black granite. She smiled and looked around for the chef, ready to thank whoever it was, until shockingly pale blond hair greeted her eyes.

"That plate's yours. I will have the syrup out in just a minute, and I'll keep that warm for you. But you'll be wanting a place to freshen up before we eat, I imagine. The guest bathroom's the first door on the right when you enter the hall. I've set some things out for you and I've got something that will help you." Hermione tensed. He had said that before, hadn't he? When... when what? Her brain seemed hidden under layers of fog this morning.

"There will be a potion in the cabinet for that hangover. It's labeled. Hard to miss." When she didn't move, he sighed, still facing away from her and said, "Please. Lets... Let's not make this awkward Granger. You're over thinking things, or not thinking at all. You needed a place to stay last night, I wasn't going to leave you drunk on your doorstep. So just... First door on your right."

Hermione stared at him a few seconds more, then walked stiffly to the restroom. She found he had supplied a spare toothbrush, a hairbrush, a towel and a robe. She thought for a moment, trying to fight through the fog in her head. Deciding that things might be a little easier after she got herself cleaned up a bit, she opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. The potion was easily found, though it tasted horrible on the way down. It was a sickly green and tasted a bit like a combination of coffee and tomatoes, but she could instantly feel it helping. She showered quickly, marveling at the luxurious feel of the bathroom itself. Only the finest things for a Malfoy, she thought.

Once clean and thinking more clearly, she wrapped herself in the robe (green and thick and fluffy, rich enough to want to sink into for ever) and went to join her host in the kitchen.

She found him sitting at the bar, dishes washed and now drying themselves by the sink, and he reading the Prophet, plate untouched. She slid into her seat, situated directly across the long bar from his.

"Malfoy."

"Granger."

"Thank you."

He lowered the paper slowly, and a spark of curiosity showed in his eye before that look, that trademark Malfoy veneer replaced it.

"Nothing to thank. I just hope you enjoy your meal. I've taken to cooking the muggle way. Takes a bit longer, and it's harder to get it to suit each persons taste, but I find it's relaxing. Oh. I'd almost forgotten." He produced his wand, though from where Hermione couldn't be sure, and waved it once. "Orange juice. Personal favorite." He explained as a glass appeared next to each of there plates and filled with orange liquid.

They ate in silence. The food was delicious, and she enjoyed it thoroughly but her head was to full of last nights events, and this morning's situation for conversation to be easy. Draco however, looked perfectly at peace. Not that he ever looked any different. There was always something about him, maybe it was his upbringing, but then who knew? What made a man the sort to lounge around in button ups and dress pants with bare feet, as he was doing now, or to keep his bachelor pad so clean, when it was obvious he lived alone, or to take in a girl who he had never gotten along with all that well on a whim?

Not that she wasn't thankful. She'd have slept on the steps last night had he not come along. She had come home from visiting with Luna to find Ron, her Ron, with that girl again. Must have been the third time she'd caught him in a month. She screamed something at him, the girl ran out, and Ron had snapped. He always did, was always the first to throw a curse, but she had always been better with a wand. Jinxes flew and in the end she won. She won, but really, no one ever won in those fights. Sometimes she would end up at Luna's. Sometimes at a random hotel. She had gone to Harry once, but really she didn't like to stress Harry out over anything anymore. He was always so good to her, he didn't deserve having to deal with her problems.

It was bad last night. But tonight she would be back there again. And nothing would change.

Draco caught her studying him twice, but he said nothing either time. She looked exhausted. Looked hard, and bitter, and something in him hated to see her like this. Things had changed so much in such a short time, and then it seemed she had stayed frozen. Far to frozen for far to long and now all of her was cold. And he missed her. The old her. Even when they had hated each other it... it hadn't felt like this. He was the cold one, that's how it was supposed to be, but her, Granger, she... She was warm. She was warm and tan and a bit like the sun. Witty and brave and so so warm. After the war, Draco had jumped at the chance to work with her. Seeing her everyday felt like some sort of redemption, until he had noticed how dark the circles under her eyes were becoming. Then everything had started to crash when he walked her to her fool of a husbands office on the way to lunch one day, his head still in the case they were working on, hers on surprising the Weasel. He hadn't even noticed something was wrong until she gave a little "oh" sound and clutched his arm.

Things got bad after that, and he started noticing bruises on her husband, and loads more make up on her. With every fight, and every girl, she seemed to freeze a little more. He had tried talking to her, but she always shoved him off. He was tired of not being able to help.

Finding him with that tramp in his office had been strike one. This, Draco figured, would be his official strike two. An excuse to help without her objecting too much. A chance at bringing the sun back into view.

When she left that day it was after too little conversation, and much less time than Draco would have liked. She said she would see him on Monday, and he nodded. He hugged her briefly before he let her go. But she was still so cold, and he had to let her go. Really, what else could he do?


End file.
